Page 55 of Puck You Both

Thanking him. In two languages, completely sincere. Nobody is performing anymore, and knowing that does more to me than the performance ever did.

The first thrust makes their phone tremble against the mattress. The second lands deeper and drags a wrecked sound out of Theo. By the fourth they've found it, a pace with weight behind it, skin against skin, the bed frame counting against the wall, and I fuck my fist to it in the dark. Wet sounds on both ends of the line now, and there’s no telling whose breathing is whose.

"He gets tighter when he hears you," Patrick says.

My rhythm stumbles.

"Don't tell him that—" Theo's protest dissolves before it finishes landing.

"Make the sound again," Patrick says.

To me. That one is mine. An instruction, sent south across space, and I don't even know which sound he means. Then I do, because my next stroke pulls it out on its own. Low, and rough. Embarrassing, and so fucking real.

Theo's voice jumps an octave. The bed surges. And Patrick exhales something in Polish, quiet, the same word that escaped him the last time.

I file it away again. Spelling unknown, meaning unknown. Effect catastrophic.

"Feel what he does to you?" Patrick asks. "And he's not even in the room."

"Then get him in the room," Theo wails. It's a demand, ragged and sincere, and it detonates somewhere under my ribs. "Next time I want— I want— fuck—"

Next time.

Patrick slows. I hear it happen, the whole rhythm banking into a hold, dragging a sob of pure frustration out of Theo, and when Patrick speaks again, the register has dropped to the one that ends arguments. "Tell him what you want."

Everything in me pulls tight.

Theo tries. What comes out is air, a broken laugh, half a word. Patrick pushes deep and stays there, pinning him on it, patient and unyielding as gravity.

"Use your words."

"I want—" Theo's breath shudders in. The mattress creaks under some small desperate movement, a body trying to ride what it's been given. "Patrick, please."

"Not my name."

One heartbeat. Two.

The dark above my bed starts spinning. My fist has stopped. Everything has stopped except my heart, which is trying to leave through my throat, because I know what I want to find on the other end of this silence, and I don't believe it, both at once.

Theo drags in a breath that shakes the whole speaker. "Wall."

My name. Ruined. Wanted. Said like it's the thing being kept from him.

"I want him to—" The rest never arrives, because Patrick moves, and the sentence becomes my name again, louder, and the sound of it hits the base of my spine like something physical.

My orgasm doesn't ask permission.

No edge left to manage, nothing for me to decide. My balls pull tight and it's already happening, hot cum shooting out, pulse after pulse, more of it than makes sense. A sound tears out of me from somewhere below the foundations, long and low. Fully witnessed. My hips ride my fist through every wave while somewhere in Milwaukee Theo hears me and says it for the third time: "Wall". Soft, awed, as if to himself.

"Good," Patrick says, to both of us I’m sure, his voice in shreds. "He heard you."

Then he stops holding back.

The bed hits the wall and keeps hitting it. Theo's voice climbs past words into pure sound, and I lie in my own aftermath, with my cock still twitching in my sticky fist, oversensitive and unwilling to go still, because going still feels like leaving. Patrick's breathing shortens, turns jagged. His control comes down in pieces I can hear.

"Come," he orders.

And Theo does. A raw, cracked-open cry, a string of curses, and something that's just vowels, Patrick's name buried in the wreckage. And then mine. Patrick follows before Theo's finished, the rhythm seizing, a groan pulled up from the depths of him, and one last Polish word delivered into what sounds like Theo's skin.